For weeks, I had been trying to plan my long Easter weekend as a last hurrah. After many frustrations trying to finagle a visit to the Amalfi Coast — senza car, senza bus schedules, senza any kind of online map showing the bus stops or ferry piers — I finally tucked that dream away for an undetermined future. At this point, I had feathered away time to the point that I had four days to the weekend. Life in Italy, the fantastical place where you can determine your European adventures just hours in advance.

The reports were undivided: rain, rain, rain. It looked like my long-hoped-for weekend by the water would not happen. So I set my sightline on Milano, where I had spent a day with my mother and been innamorata with the city. There are stories upon stories in itself of our rainy days in the city: burrowing up in our adorable apartment, a gem mined from AirB&B; shivering in the drizzle for a Klimt exhibition, then discovering how worth the wait was when I came face-to-face with his utterly flooring Beethoven frieze; strolling through endless aperitivi at the onset of evening, ordering cocktails served in pineapples.

I hadn’t even seen pictures of the lake before, but acted on a whim that had served me well before: blind recommendation. Just days before, I had called my mother in exasperated tears, convinced that I wouldn’t be seeing and experiencing anything new during my last potential weekend to travel Italy. Her answer was quick: go back to Milano, the city you love. Go to the Alps, the mountains of your family. Go to Como.

Through the first days, my friend Rebecca and I debated which day would be best for a quick side trip to Lake Como. When we woke up on Easter to a shining sun, we knew we’d chosen well.